Richard J. Severson
I remember visiting my maternal grandfather in the hospital the day before he died from heart failure. He pulled the sheet aside and pointed at his ankles, which were swollen with fluids that his heart could no longer circulate. “Look what’s happening to me,” he said. Then he made me promise to spend the night with my grandmother so that she wouldn’t be alone. I’ve often wondered about that precious last visit with my grandfather. He was dismayed about his own death, to be sure, but he was much more concerned about my grandmother’s well-being. In the end, I think we care about our loved ones more than we care about ourselves, and that is why we fight against death and grieve our losses so dearly. We don’t want them to be left alone in the world, or vice versa.
A recent movie reminded me of my grandfather’s passing.1 It was about a man whose plane crashed in the Arctic. He went about the business of trying to survive until help would arrive. The body of the plane served as a makeshift shelter, and he created a system of fishing holes in the ice so that he could feed himself. He also set up a short wave radio transmitter on a nearby hill that he could power with a hand pump. In short, his life boiled down to an efficient system of minimal survival. Then one day a helicopter flew overhead. Before it could land, it was upended by a strong gust of wind. Only the copilot of the helicopter survived, though she was unconscious and seriously injured. The man created a makeshift sled so that he could drag her back to his downed airplane. He did everything he could to nurse her back to health. Then he made a fateful decision to leave his camp so that he could get her to an outpost where she could receive medical care. It was a dangerous undertaking, but he did it without hesitation. Until this injured pilot who needed his assistance came into his life, he was merely surviving. Suddenly, his life was full of meaning and purpose again. He sacrificed himself for her, willingly and eagerly.
When we care for someone else, it gives our own life a meaning that cannot be surpassed. To care for those in need is self-authenticating; it’s the reason for our being. That’s why medicine itself is such a powerful symbol of the human predicament. It makes the world go round.
Notes:
- Joe Penna, Arctic (Armory Films, 2018).
Richard J. Severson 
Interesting blog generally and this ditty on Grandpa McGannon was particularly poignant for me as I have always had an impression of these grandparents as hard, unempathetic folks with barely enough energy to survive let alone value family and express its importance. I never saw them show affection, say I love you, or physically or emotionally comfort each other. I remember grandpa getting pissed at us at the farm for doing any number of things that would piss anyone off – like shooting the milk cows with pp guns. he’d exclaim: “Ya darn fools!”
Thank you, cuz, for sending me this. It changes the way I feel and think of these important people in my life and even assists me in the feelings and thoughts for my dad.
It (they, because I read several of your blog posts) also provided me similar insights into you! They are consistent so not surprising.
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To be called a fool by Ed McGannon was a serious blow! Even in the whirlwind of imperfect affections and relationships, the McGannons were worthy grandparents. When mom and dad died, Ed told me that they were my parents now. Very touching.
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very interesting. I was with grandma Josie in St. Luke’s Hospital intensive care the night she died. Though she was mostly unconscious I spent an hour or so in the intensive care room with her, talking to her and touching her. We knew she was near the end. when she started having slight convulsions, I went to get the nurse. The nurse said they would bathe her and make her feel more comfortable, and I should go home now. I lived in Aberdeen just a few blocks away. By the time I got home, my father called me and said that the hospital called and said that his mother Josie had just died. To this day, I don’t know why the hospital made me leave when my grandmother was about to die. It seems it would’ve made more sense for a family member to have been there.
Cousin Tim.
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I agree. It would have been nice to be there when she passed. I was a volunteer at a residential hospice in Portland for 15 years, and I observed the same phenomenon over and over again: family visitors step out for a bite to eat, or some other reason, and when they return their loved is gone. Sometimes they prefer to slip away when nobody’s there, or so it seems.
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Rick,, This one stuck a chord with me. I have been watching various cohorts go through diagnosis, preparation and finally death. I’ve come to believe that death with dignity is not a blue pill or triple dose of morphine to ease ones pain through the process. Rather it is in helping others that survive after my death. They each need something different. Something to begin to let go. To get beyond denial and bargaining. It is hard, I have observed, for sick friends to carry this out alone. The ones who care will find someone to help those people. And old friend, me for example, but could be relative who takes charge and pulls family together. Even a spouse, although rarely. But the dignity of caring about others even as you are dying and of asking for you friend to step up and take on one last and probably the hardest task just one more time for you. Takes a special person to ask that of others.
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Thank you for your thoughtful observations, so well said!
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